


Parenthood

by Enochianess



Series: Dirtiest white boy in America [9]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anger, Attempted Murder, Blow Jobs, Brothers, Canon Related, Canon Rewrite, Drug Dealing, Episode Related, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time Blow Jobs, Gang Violence, Guns, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Insecure Mickey, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Mickey Milkovich, Parenthood, Season/Series 02, Smoking, Smut, Workplace Sex, Worried Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:09:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enochianess/pseuds/Enochianess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Season 2 Episode 8 - Mickey focused</p><p>"If my dad finds out about this, he will kill me himself." Mickey says. Why won't the kid fucking listen to him? "I've been to 16 bars, the homeless shelter, shantytown under the L, your house, batty Sheila's... where the fuck is he?" He exclaims, his voice rising in desperation, becoming more and more shaky the longer he talks. He grabs Ian's shoulder and spins him around. </p><p>"I don't know!" Ian replies, his own voice louder now.</p><p>"Bullshit!" Mickey yells, the fear and rage beginning to seep out.</p><p>He stares at the redhead for a moment, and then something clicks. He can't help but laugh at the idiocy of this kid. "You warned him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parenthood

**Author's Note:**

> I can't get enough of Mickey Milkovich and I don't think his side of the story was explored enough on the show, so I'm writing his story canonically episode by episode and adding and expanding upon the scenes as I see fit (And yes, this does include smut, because their kiss and sex scenes were virtually nonexistent). All the works will be named after the episodes in the show.
> 
> *Gives you the bird because we're in the shameless fandom and this is the best way of expressing my affection and love for you all*

Mickey’s day had been going well so far. He’d been standing at his usual spot, grumbling to himself about how he’d be spending the whole day freezing his bollocks off, when a North Side kid showed up, stuttering out about wanting to buy some Special K. It was fucking weird the way the asshole said it, his voice quivering but still somehow leaking a profound superiority complex, and Mickey can tell it’s the first time he’s done this. Mickey is tempted to make a smart-ass remark, is nearly bursting with the need to, but then the kid hands over a wad of cash, $500 if he's counting right, and Mickey makes sure to keep his trashcan of a mouth snapped shut, responding with a nod of thanks instead.

He didn’t usually make that kind of money in a whole day of slummin’ it in the alleyways with crack-heads, let alone in one fucking transaction. He figures this means he can bail and head to the Kash ‘n Grab for a couple hours. Half a grand would keep his dad off his ass until tomorrow and he could finally put some hours in at the store. It was fucking difficult, née impossible, to balance his two blossoming careers. If he didn’t bring home a minimum of $300 a day, his dad would lose his shit, and that meant some days he had to skip work at the store. But, every time he skipped, Linda was on his ass about reporting him to his probation officer. It was a shit-show.

 

Mickey's not sure how much more he can take. Ian's been hunched over his Algebra textbook for the past hour, his forehead wrinkled in concentration, and he hasn't stopped biting at his bottom lip the whole damn time. Mickey's been leaning over the counter opposite, pretending to flick through a magazine, but mostly just watching the redhead instead. He doesn't understand how the kid can stay so focused and motivated all the time. It's annoying as fuck.

"What do you want, Mick?" Ian asks suddenly, his eyes still following the equations on the page.

"The fuck you on about?" Mickey replies gruffly, his eyes flicking back down to the magazine. _Shit,_ was he reading _US Weekly?_  

"I can feel you staring." 

Mickey scoffs, resting his elbows on the countertop and dropping his chin into the palms of his hands. "Fuck off. I ain't starin' at nothin'."

He watches as a smirk twitches onto Ian's face, one corner of his mouth lifting as if there's a fishhook pulling at it. Mickey wants to punch him. He closes his eyes for a moment, scratches at his beard, and is surprised when he opens them again to find Ian gazing intently back at him, his textbook now closed and pushed to one side. 

"What?" He snaps out, nervous under the redhead's sudden scrutiny.

"You're here." Ian replies dumbly.

"You only just figurin' that out now, freckles? How is it I had to repeat ninth grade and you didn't?"

Ian just smiled wider and Mickey had to resist the urge to face palm. _This fucking kid._

"You've not come in all week. Linda's gonna have your ass when she sees you."

Mickey shrugs nonchalantly. "Ain't nothin' new."

"You been out on a run or something?" 

"Not exactly." Mickey grumbled. He really shouldn't be telling Gallagher any of this. It was none of his fucking business. "My dad fucked something up and said we gotta get some serious dough, so I've been out on the streets."

"What, are you a hooker now?" Ian asked.

Mickey stared at him for a second. "No, asswipe, I've been dealin', _sellin'._ Y'know, venturing out a little, up to the North Side and wherever the money's rollin'."

Ian laughed and hid his face behind his hands. "Shit."

"Just because you're a little twink, don't mean the rest of us are."

"Hey! I've never fucked for money, asshole." Ian exclaimed, but Mickey could tell he wasn't really offended.

"You saying you wouldn't?" Mickey asked, eyebrows raised in challenge. "You're not exactly hard to get are you?"

"Maybe I'm just easy for the right person."

And Mickey couldn't help the way the breath whooshed out of him a little, the smirk falling from his face.

"That right, huh?" 

Ian nodded, his eyes mischievous. "Wanna find out?"

Mickey swallowed thickly. Yeah, he wanted to find out.

 

Mickey shifts awkwardly from foot to foot when him and Ian get into the backroom. Usually he walks straight over to their usual spot and yanks his pants down, more than ready to just get the fucking show on the road. But, he's been thinking about something a lot lately, something Ian's done for him plenty of times but he's never reciprocated, and it won't get out of his fucking head. He's been jerking off to the thought of it, biting down on his fist to stop the moan of Ian's name from reaching the ears of everyone else in the Milkovich house. He wants it, despite how much he's tried to convince himself otherwise. He just wished he knew how to ask for it.

He swallows thickly. He had to do it now. There wasn't gonna be any better time to make a fucking idiot out of himself.

He really hopes Ian can't tell how nervous he's feeling, but he's sure it must be fucking obvious. 

"Mick?" Ian says, the question in his voice clear.

"I wanna blow you." Mickey blurts out, heat rising in his cheeks. Yeah-  _real smooth, Mick._

Ian's eyebrows shoot up so high they're nearly in his hairline. "Wha-"

"Come 'ere." He orders, his voice only a little shaky.

Ian stares at him a moment, mouth hanging open like a gormless fish, and then scrambles over. He immediately grips at Mickey's shoulders, pushing off his Security jacket and pressing his lips to Mickey's neck. The redhead had been doing that a lot recently, ever since Mickey had got out of Juvie, and Mickey found himself wanting it more and more. He was grateful that Ian never pushed any further, that he seemed to understand Mickey couldn't give anything other than what he already had. Kissing was just too intimate for him. To him, it just screamed of relationship, of something more than just a simple fuck. It was one of the only barriers Ian was yet to break down, and Mickey was frightened of what it would mean for them if he did. It felt like they were hanging over some sort of precipice as it was, and Mickey didn't want to disturb the careful balance. He didn't want to risk it. Despite how he acted, he didn't want to lose Ian.

Mickey places his hands on Ian's narrow hips and pushes him back against the shelving unit, crowding him until there is very little space between them. He notices how Ian's gaze drops to his mouth for a moment before flicking back up. Mickey licks his lips, letting a shuddering breath escape him, and then leans up to whisper in his redhead's ear.

"Time to return the favour, right?"

Ian gasps as Mickey drops to his knees. "Mick, you don't have to-"

"You're damn right I don't. Now shut the fuck up." He grumbles. If he doesn't get this shit started now, he's not gonna be able to do it. He can't back out. Mickey was not a fucking coward.

He tugs on Ian's zipper, undoes the button, and then pulls his pants down to his ankles. He eyes the bulge in front of him, smirks up at Ian when he notices it twitch and harden without even being touched. 

"I hate you." He thinks he hears the redhead murmur.

He palms him gently through his boxers for a moment, letting his nerves dissipate a little, and then hooks his fingers into the waistband and pulls them down too. He jerks back at the way Ian's cock bounces up, almost hitting him in the face. And, of fucking course, Ian's laughing at him. Mickey scowls up at him, mildly satisfied that the kid has the decency to look at least somewhat apologetic. 

Mickey wrapped his hand around the base of Ian's cock, took a deep breath to steady himself, and then licked tentatively at the head. He watched with pleasure as Ian's eyes fell shut, his head tilting back slightly. It's the confidence Mickey needs, and he opens his mouth wide and slowly sinks down, moaning at the taste of pre-come on his tongue. He takes Ian as deeply as he can, testing out his gag reflex, and then pulls off again, pressing a gentle kiss to the tip. 

"Mick, don't-  _again- please-"_ Ian stutters above him, his fingers threading into Mickey's dark hair. 

When Mickey doesn't move, Ian opens his eyes and looks down at him, his eyes imploring. Mickey wraps his lips around the head, tonguing at the slit, and swallowed him down again. Ian tugged at his hair and Mickey hummed around him, taken a little bit by surprise by how much he liked it. He'd never thought much about how he enjoyed hair-pulling when he was being fucked, but he was starting to wonder if he had a bit of a kink. He bobbed his head faster, spurred on by the sounds of pleasure Ian was making, and sucked at him hungrily, if a little messily. He figured he was doing okay for his first time. Hell, Ian certainly seemed to think so. The redhead was shuddering above him, his hips rocking forward slightly of their own accord. Mickey squeezed the hand still on Ian's hip, silently reminding him not to move. He wasn't sure he was ready for Ian to fuck his face yet, but he'd be lying if he said his dick didn't twitch at the thought of it.

"Mick- Mickey, get up here. Wanna fuck you." Gallagher moaned, fingers tugging sharply at his hair.

Mickey growled in pleasure, pulling off slowly and tonguing once more at the slit, indulging in the taste of the pre-come beading there. He got shakily to his feet, his eyes scrunching shut when Ian pushed him back against the shelves, yanked his pants down and stuck his hand into his boxers, immediately gripping and tugging him. Mickey was so hard he jolted away from the sensation for a second, before happily thrusting forward into it. 

"Get 'em off." He ordered, trying desperately to push his underwear down without losing the contact of Ian's hand. 

Ian helped him, his hands shaking in his haste. He stopped stroking Mickey's cock, shushing him when Mickey whimpered, and grabbed hold of his thigh until he'd hitched it around his hip. Mickey's head fell back, his mouth dropping open, when Ian started to grind their bare cocks together, the soft, silky skin gliding effortlessly with the moisture of their pre-come. It was the most they'd ever done face-to-face, and Mickey would probably be freaking out about that and how intimate it was, but it felt too fucking good for him to give a shit. 

"Lu- lube. We need lube." Mickey grunted, his arms wound around Ian's shoulders to give him the leverage to thrust back.

Ian pushed his face into Mickey's neck, his breath hot and damp against the already sweaty skin. Mickey wanted to push him away, tell him to stop being such a fucking girl, but he couldn't, because he didn't really want him to. He moaned when Ian's teeth sunk down into the flesh, his tongue soothing the mark afterwards. 

"You taste good." Ian sighed, his grip tightening around Mickey's thigh whilst his other drifted down until he could drag a dry finger over his hole. 

" _Ian! Lube!"_ Mickey demanded. He was going fucking insane.

Ian rummaged around the shelf behind Mickey's head, looking for the small tub they kept stashed away there. They were lucky Linda hadn't found it yet. She'd bust a fucking nut. 

Mickey tried to turn around, thinking Ian would release his hold on his leg, but Ian just pressed him harder against the shelving unit, his head shaking minutely from side to side. Mickey's pulse raced, his breathing picking up as he watched Ian slick up his fingers with more concentration than was required. He didn't like this position, felt too vulnerable, and he didn't understand why Ian wanted to do things differently. What they usually did worked. Why change anything now? He thought maybe it was his own fault for giving the fucker a hummer. 

"Relax. I got you." Ian whispered lowly in his ear, the soft tickle of his breath making Mickey shiver. "It's just me."

" _Fu- fuck_." Mickey choked out when Ian pushed a finger inside him, his insides clenching around the intrusion.

The angle was different, Ian's finger not reaching quite as deeply inside him, but rubbing more forcefully against his prostate. He rocked his hips back onto it, his nails digging into Ian's shoulder blades when the redhead added a second and started scissoring him open. 

"Just fuck me already." He whimpered, the constant pressure on his sweet-spot almost painful. Usually Ian would open him up with at least three fingers before he fucked him, but Mickey couldn't wait that long. He would be just loose enough and no more, and that was fucking fine by him. 

"Okay." Ian rasped, pulling his fingers out and finally letting go of Mickey's thigh. 

Mickey span round, sticking his ass out wantonly, whilst Ian slicked himself up, grunting as he stroked his cock. Mickey had only just grabbed hold of the unit in front of him when he felt Ian's fingers begin to massage at his hip, his cock brushing over his hole. It felt like he was choking on the very air he breathed when Ian pushed inside Mickey in one, long, slow thrust of his hips. Mickey didn't think he'd ever get tired of feeling the way Ian stretched and filled him. He was sure nothing else in the fucking world could compare. He rolled his hips back when Ian started thrusting, meeting in the middle, building a steady rhythm that had them both grunting and groaning in no time. He thought it was strange how they seemed to know each other's bodies so well already. Though, he supposed, they'd been going at this thing a lot longer than he'd like to remember. Ian knew exactly when to pull at his hair, bite at his neck, back, shoulder, when to twist at his nipple or whisper dirty promises in his ear. Each fuck, each earth-shattering climax they shared, made it more and more difficult for him to walk away. Why walk away when it was the only fucking good thing he had going for him?

"Hello, boys."

Mickey and Ian jolted apart, knocking a couple of glass jars off the shelves to smash at their feet. They both turned sharply to look at the intruder, ready to attack if they needed to, but it was just fucking Frank, and he didn't look like he was gonna pummel them. 

"The front door was locked, so... I came in the back- no pun intended. You might want to check the locks." The old man said with a smirk.

The freezer door swung shut and they both scrambled to pull their clothes back on. Mickey could hear Frank rummaging around the store, the clinking of glass bottles and the chime as the till shot open. 

"Um, I see that you're preoccupied, so why don't we put this little loan on my tab?"

Mickey followed Ian back out into the store, still too cotton-brained from being interrupted mid-fuck to do much else than follow the redhead's lead. The kid looked pretty calm, if not a little pissed off. Meanwhile, Mickey was scared fucking shitless. Why was no one throwing punches? Why weren't they dead yet? Holy fuck, if it had been Terry who'd caught them...

"As you were, sailors." Frank said, saluting them before walking out the store with his stolen groceries.

Mickey stared at Ian.

_What the fuck were they gonna do now?_

 

“We gotta kill him." Mickey concludes, pacing agitatedly in front of the counter, rubbing at his bottom lip like he always does when he’s anxious.

Really, there was no other option here. Frank was a drunk, notorious for talking shit to anyone who’ll listen. Though, he supposed they'd got off lightly. If anyone else had caught them, they'd probably be in a fucking ER right now.

There’s a loud knocking on the door, a woman yelling, "C'mon! Open up!"

And seriously, she can fuck the hell off. He tells her so.

"Look, nobody will miss Frank, anyway. We shoot him in the head, we dump him in the river."

"Look, he has a lousy short-term memory; he's probably already forgotten." Ian replies calmly, leaning against the counter whilst he watched Mickey freak out. His eyes were sincere and Mickey had to look away. No, he couldn't let the redhead change his mind on this one.

"Can't chance that." He said.

"I'll talk to him." Ian tried to reassure him.

"Gotta cut his hands off, pull his teeth; he can't even be identified." Mickey rambled, his mind working a mile a minute as he tried desperately to find a way out of this hell hole they'd dug for themselves. Fuck, if Terry found out... He couldn't help the way he zoned out, his imagination whirring out of control and taking him some place dark and familiar.

“You stay here, watch the store. I'll take care of it.” Ian told him, his fingertips brushing against Mickey's chest as he passed.

Mickey starts shedding out of his jacket, his mind now set. He was a Milkovich. This was nothing he hadn't done before. “My Uncle Joe works at the foundry; he'll dump the teeth into the chrome plating vat and it's done."

"Mickey, you need this job for your probation." Ian exclaims, his voice desperate, his eyes frantic. He steps closer to Mickey, getting in his face as if that'll make him listen. Mickey thinks Ian must know the effect he has on him, how he's got Mickey wrapped around his little finger. Not today though. Mickey can't let Terry find out. He can't let Ian get hurt, _or worse_ , because of this thing they've got. Shit, he was so fucking stupid to drag the kid into all this shit.

"No, what I need is to take care of Frank and his big mouth.” He says, pushing past Gallagher.

Ian's mouth is pulled in a thin, grim line, and Mickey hates that it's him that's put it there. It's for his own good though. Mickey's just trying to keep them both safe.

“Stay here. This won't take long."  

 

Joey and Iggy are playing slaps, Camouflage by Double Dagger in the background, when Mickey strolls into the kitchen.

"Hey." He says, clicking his fingers to grab their attention. "You guys got plans today?"

"I was gonna drop a Cialis and stroke it." Iggy replies, sticking his tongue in his cheek.

Mickey tries his best to ignore what his brother's just said, along with the visual that accompanies it. I mean, _fuck._  

"I need help killing somebody." He says, pulling open the fridge and grabbing a beer.

"Someone we care about?" Joey asks.

"No."

"Knife, gun or tire iron?" Iggy questions, waiting for his younger brother to give the verdict.

"Gun's safest." Mickey decides.

Joey hums. "Not with today's forensics." 

"Fine, a knife." Mickey shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. He really couldn't give a shit how they ganked the fucker. He just wanted him dead.

"That's a lot of blood flow. One drop left behind, that's life in the joint." Joey adds unhelpfully. 

Mickey puts his beer down and scrubs at his nose, trying his best to keep his temper at bay. He's just so fucking done. Done with this fucking day, his fucking family, fucking _Frank._

"Why don't you tell me, John Wayne Gacy?"

"Kidnap and strangle." Iggy tells him.

"Perfect." 

He opens the cupboard doors, his brothers following behind him, and switches the light on. 

"Where's your rophenol?" Iggy asks Joey, taking out a gun and some ammo.

"I ran out. That quinceañera over at Jamie's." Joey explains. "I got plenty of duct tape."

"Get it." Mickey orders.

He feels better already, now that he has some sort of plan set in motion. He feels better now that he's got some fucking _control._ He's never dealt well with vulnerability or threats. He can't deal with someone knowing this about him. No here. Not in this neighbourhood. Not where his dad can find out. Not where anyone can find out. Being gay was  _wrong._ Mickey wasn't gay. He couldn't be gay. Not here. No, he couldn't let Frank say anything. Not with Terry around. He wasn't supposed to take it up the ass. He wasn't supposed to let anyone have him like that. He wasn't supposed to _give_ like that. A Milkovich was supposed to be tough and violent and dominant. Sex for a Milkovich was supposed to be about taking your pleasure, having a good old fucking time. It was about taking, claiming, owning. It wasn't about giving. But, Mickey gave. He gave and gave and gave when it came to Ian Gallagher. He didn't seem to be able to stop himself, or even find it within him to want to.

  

Mickey walks into the Alibi with Joey in tow, glancing over the usual drunkards in search for Frank. The place reeked of cigarettes, booze and sweat, but it was a strangely pleasant smell to Mickey. It gave him a weird sense of comfort, of home, of familiarity. Although, that was probably pretty fucked up.

"Hey, what's happening, boys?" Kevin greets them, folding his dishtowel and flipping it over his shoulder.

"You seen Frank?" Mickey asks.

"Frank who?"

"Don't give me 'Frank fucking who?' How many people come in here named Frank?" Mickey snaps back. He wasn't in the fucking mood for this.

"Hey, don't get salty, sweetie. There's Frank Stinson, substitute math teacher who loves Sudoku. There's Frank Salmon, comes in on Thursdays with his softball buddies, and there's Frank Migneault, retired air traffic controller, playing pool." Kev replies, pointing at each guy he mentions.

"Frank Gallagher."

"Check the Rusty Hammer. They got happy hour breakfast 9:00 to 11:00. He's a bargain drinker." The barman suggests. 

Mickey turns around without any thanks and walks back out the door.

_Where the fuck was the fucking fuck?_

 

"Frank here?" He asks, barging into the Gallagher house the moment Ian's sister opens the door.

"No." She replies with a frown.

"When's he going to be back?" 

"For as long as I've been alive, I haven't known the answer to that question." Fiona says, and Mickey can tell she ain't lying. The old man was a waste of fucking space. Of course he'd waltz in and out of his kids' lives without any explanation or warning. The prick just wanted booze, drugs, or the cash to buy the booze and drugs.

Mickey glanced between Fiona and Veronica and then stormed back out.

 

"Why we killing him again?" Iggy asks from beside him.

"He raped a girl." Mickey replies, eyes fixed on the Alibi, arm hanging out the car door window.

"Statutory or catch and release?" Joey questions from the back. "Shit. He's locking up. No Frank." 

"Shit." Mickey mumbles, dropping his cigarette butt onto the road and pressing his foot down on the gas.

_Where- the- fuck?_

 

"Where is he?" He asks, slipping under the rolling grille.

"I have no idea." Ian replies, his eyes downcast.

"He's had 24 hours to run his mouth already. Where is he?"

"He won't." The redhead says, standing up from the crate he was sat on and pulling at his cigarette.

"If my dad finds out about this, he will kill me himself." Mickey says. Why won't the kid fucking _listen_ to him? "I've been to 16 bars, the homeless shelter, shantytown under the L, your house, batty Sheila's... where the fuck is he?" He exclaims, his voice rising in desperation, becoming more and more shaky the longer he talks. He grabs Ian's shoulder and spins him around. 

"I don't know!" Ian replies, his own voice louder now.

"Bullshit!" Mickey yells, the fear and rage beginning to seep out.

He stares at the redhead for a moment, and then something clicks. He can't help but laugh at the idiocy of this kid. "You warned him."

"I hate him more than you do." Ian says, following Mickey when he heads behind the till point. 

"I ain't stealing this. This is less than what I'm owed for my hours this week. I'm done. Done... done." Mickey explains, opening the till and grabbing a handful of notes.

"Frank's walked in on Fiona and all of her boyfriends, walked in on Lip and his girls. We got nothing to be ashamed of." Ian exclaims desperately.

And it kills him. It kill him the way Ian's looking at him, like Mickey's breaking his heart, like Mickey's trying to hurt him. But Mickey can't do this. Mickey's not Ian. If Mickey's dad finds out about this, about what he is, he'll fucking kill him. Not in the way most kids say their parents will kill them. No, Terry would wrap his meaty hands around his throat and squeeze all the breath out of him, hit him with his fists again and again until nobody could even recognise him, take a knife to his chest and cut until the flesh separated from bone. And Ian doesn't get it. He doesn't get how fucking serious this is, how dangerous his dad is. He doesn't fucking get it because he's never had to live through it. And maybe that's Mickey's fault. Maybe it's Mickey's fault for not making him understand sooner. But it had all just been so fucking easy, falling into this thing between them, letting himself believe it was something he could have. And now- now Mickey thinks he hates himself more than ever, if it's possible for someone to hate themselves that fucking much. 

"What fucking world do you live in?" He asks, his voice sounding defeated now. And he was. There was no way he could fight for the redhead the way he knew Ian needed him to.

"You can't... you can't... you know... I don't want you to..." Ian stammered, glancing around, stepping closer and reaching out for him.

And he can hear how fucking desperate Ian is. And- and- he fucking  _can't._ He jumps back, arms thrown out to halt Gallagher's advances. He can't let him touch him. If he does, he know he'll give in. He knows he'll crumble. He has to shut it the fuck down,  _now._

"What did I just say to you? Done is done." He spits. "What, you think we're boyfriend and girlfriend here? You're nothing but a warm mouth to me."

And it hurts. It hurts so fucking much as he says it, he's not sure how he can stand it. Especially not with the way Ian's looking at him, his mouth turned down at the corners, his eyes watery, his jaw twitching as he strains to keep all his emotions under control.

"Sorry I gotta go kill your dad, but I'm doing a lot of people a favor, including you." Mickey says, turning round and walking out the door.

He has to get the fuck out of there before he does something fucking stupid, like wrap his arms around the redhead in the way his body is screaming at him to. He has to get out. He has to. He can't- he can't-  _fuck._

 

"Frank's at the Alibi." Iggy says as he busts into the kitchen.

"I got this." Mickey replies, putting his beer down on the table and jumping to his feet.

"No, we got your back." Iggy tells him.

"I know you do, but I got it."

"I hate rapists, too." Joey mumbles, standing up now as well.

"Okay, so get the next one." Mickey says.

"We're coming. Grab a mask." Joey announces, throwing a fucking Barack Obama mask at Mickey's chest. 

 

"Run up a couple blocks. I'm gonna come from behind. I'll catch him in an alley and get it done." Mickey says, loading his gun and sliding out the car.

He strolls across the street, his mask on top of his head, and starts trailing an unsuspecting Frank. The old man was smoking, staggering about on the pavement drunkenly. Mickey pulled the gun from his pocket, flicked the safety off, and then...

_I don't want you to._

_I don't want you to._

_I don't want you to._

And, fuck. FUCK. He can't do this. He can't. 

He pulls the mask off, leans over a trashcan. He doesn't even move when he hears the sirens or the cop car pulling to a stop a few yards away. He rubs at his eyes, drops the gun into the trash, and  _fuck._

"Hey... Officer, oink oink." He says, walking over to one of the cops and punching him across the face. He doesn't even struggle much when the next cop pushes him down onto the ground, yanking his hands behind his back. Instead, he just retorts, "Does that violate my probation?"

"Shut up!" The officer yells.

Mickey laughs. He laughs because what the fuck else can he do?

He's fucked. He's so, so fucked. His whole life is fucked. And, honestly, he can't find it in him to care. Hell, no one else fucking did. Why should they? He was just a good-for-nothing, Southside thug. The dirtiest white boy in fucking America.

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously I do not take credit for the dialogue from the show; I have simply used it to aid my own story and exploration of Mickey.  
> The credit for those parts goes deservedly to the writers.
> 
> Feel free to contact me: http://enochianess.tumblr.com


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